


Station RPN-ZL

by marblemartin, photonromance



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Forced Pregnancy, M/M, Mpreg, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, all your favs are queer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-25 20:05:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6208288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marblemartin/pseuds/marblemartin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/photonromance/pseuds/photonromance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Emperor is disappointed with the failure his weapon has turned out to be. Luckily, he can serve another purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not gonna be fun for Vader at first, but hold tight, I'm aiming for the fix-it to end all fix-its.
> 
>  
> 
> (Obstetric trauma/violence, heads up. It's dark.)

The station is spare, sterile, and dusty. It looks like it was once a mining station, and has been retrofitted more recently. Vader steps out of the decontamination chamber into the living area, once used by miners to decompress and relax between shifts. He’s surprised at how brightly lit it seems - then again, everything seems more glaringly bright without tinted lenses over his vision.

 

It’s only been a few months since he was ordered to Coruscant, and his Master told him that he was being removed from active duties as his apprentice.

 

 _Why?_ He remembers asking, shocked into insolence. His Master’s smile was knowing. _I have need of you elsewhere._ Then came the surgeries, intensive and long, cutting him out of the heavy armor, patching him up once again. Slimming down the life support systems, weaning him off of hyperbaric pressure, until he emerged once again. He is reborn a second time, outfitted with his prosthetics, his respirator, and a high-collared brace over his shoulders up to his chin.

 

 _Your neck is compromised,_ the rehabilitation droid told him. _The cervical vertebrae were weakened when the first neural links were integrated through them._ Vader can no longer nod, his chin held high by the cold plastic and metal of this neck brace. “Very well,” he says instead. His voice still surprises him. They removed the voice modulators - with no helmet to project it from, it would be dead weight implanted into him - and his voice is barely more than a whisper most of the time. It’s rough and jagged, like the visible scars over his body, his bare face. He hates how his face is bare.

 

Too easy to show his emotions.

 

“You seem displeased, Lord Vader.”

 

“No, my Master,” he says quickly, casting his eyes down. “Merely surprised.” He schools his face into a blankness, tells his mind to follow.

 

“You are surprised?” Sidious drawls. “Did you expect a palace for your rehabilitation?”

 

“No, Master,” he repeats.

 

“You have your droid to assist you, and a fine doctor,” the Emperor reminds him. One of the sets of sliding blast-quality doors off the main habitable area slides open - it’s a well-equipped medical center, but the human who exits makes Vader feel a spike of anger.

 

“Why is that spy of yours my doctor?” Vader hisses, unable to raise his voice anymore. He hates how petulant he sounds, unable to roar and bellow to incite fear as he used to.

 

“He is, in fact, the genius behind your rehabilitation,” Sidious tells him with infuriating calm. “Cylo is well versed in genetics and grafts.”

 

The humanoid in question strolls over to them, grinning up at Vader. He still hasn’t gotten over the shock of seeing a human face with a Rodian eye and socket - something about it unsettles him.

 

“Welcome, Lord Vader,” Cylo says.

 

Vader does not like his tone, nor the way his eyes look him up and down like a droid to be torn open and tinkered with. “Cylo,” he growls back best he can.

 

“Is he ready to start the first round?” Cylo asks the Emperor, nearly offhandedly. “I’m prepared to start immediately, if you’ll allow it.”

 

“He is ready.” The Emperor turns away from his apprentice. “I would like to see results quickly.”

 

“Of course, sire,” Cylo says. Vader feels his hands twitch. He wants to crush Cylo’s face in to stop that simpering tone.

 

The few Stormtroopers accompanying them from his 501st Legion are behind him suddenly - Cylo has made some sort of gesture, beckoning them closer. Vader is confused at first, that they would take orders from this newcomer. Then comes a tug from his neck, and he staggers. There is a - a _noose_ around his neck, slipped tight under the bolts that keep the collar and bones in alignment. “What are you doing-” he manages, before the ‘trooper activates an electric shock that goes from the insulated pole he holds, into the wire garotte and into Vader’s collar.

 

When he opens his eyes he has collapsed on the floor, held down still by the shock pole. His respirator and pacemaker stutter from the influx of power, making him cough reflexively. His Master is leaving - he’s _abandoning_ him here with this mad scientist. “Master, please-!”

 

Cylo kicks him in the side, no longer armored and protected. “None of that. Now, get him in the medbay - I need him up on the table.”

 

Vader snarls at him and writhes, trying to stand up. The shock comes again, shutting him down - the Force is slipping from his grasp with each jolt. There is no focus. _This must be a nightmare._ The ‘troopers haul him up, dragging him through the durasteel bay doors. _This is certainly a nightmare_ , Vader thinks in disjointed bursts as he is wrangled on to the sterile table by the ‘troopers he once thought were completely loyal. He is locked into place with brutal efficiency - _they were planning this_ \- and the shock pole hums with a readied charge.

 

“Alright, this won’t hurt a bit,” Cylo grunts. He’s near Vader’s feet, judging by the sound of his voice. Vader can only stare up at the ceiling in his collar. The ‘troopers are watching him closely. He realizes that his legs are canted up, locked into something that keeps them bent at the knee.

 

“First comes everyone’s favorite Gungan, the speculum,” Cylo says with barely disguised glee. Vader stiffens. _Did he just say speculum_ and his fears are answered with cold, and pain. He grits his teeth, tries to not make a sound to egg on this deranged humanoid. _Why does he need a kriffing speculum for rehabilitation_ , the petulant voice in his mind says. It pinches, it burns with cold, and he is _furious_. The crackle of electricity by his head keeps him from reaching out into the Force to attempt to annihilate Cylo for this indignity.

 

“Looks like you’re still all present and correct down there, just like your records said,” he hears Cylo somewhat distantly. “Which is good, I’d hate to have prepped for all this and have you be a scarred mess.”

 

Suddenly he realizes why he was cycled off testosterone for the surgeries. The droids advised that the risk for excess bleeding was too high, and he complied. He feels cold down to his core.

 

“Alright, here we go-” Cylo says cheerily, and something else is inserted. It’s cold and burns all at once, a pinch, a stab as it works into him inexorably. Then Vader senses the tiny spark in the Force, just a bundle of cell division.

 

“No,” he sobs, tears bubbling out of damaged tear ducts to drip back to his ears. “No, please, not that.” One of the troopers gently brushes his glove over the tear streaks, trying to wipe them up. The stab of _painsorrowdisgustshame_ from the trooper is overwhelming.

 

“Now, now, you’ll do _fine_ ,” Cylo teases, withdrawing the tools. He comes to stand by Vader’s head, grinning at the once-Lord’s distress. “Do we have a broodmare here?” He asks as he strips the gloves off.

 

Vader doesn’t want to look at him but he’s trapped, his body fighting against the respirator as he holds back sobs. “I’m not a broodmare,” he spits, eyes closed so he won’t have to look at Cylo’s face. Then he feels it - almost like a flash of light, and he knows it’s taken. The mote of energy he senses is threaded into his own. He opens his eyes, and Cylo is laughing at him.

 

“I’ll be back in a few months to make sure it really took,” he says, and pats Vader’s cheek. “Be a good broodmare for your master, and I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

 

He’s left there for the troopers to deal with. The hum of electricity fades as he’s released from the prod. “The cuffs will deactivate when we leave the room,” the trooper who touched him says. “Your protocol droid is in your quarters.” They’re about to follow Cylo, when one pauses and looks back at Vader. “I’m sorry, sir,” he hears softly, and then he is alone.

 

The cuffs click open and he gets up unsteadily. The shuttle is gone from the landing bay, he can see through the windows. Numbly, he searches out the living quarters. There’s a familiar figure and Vader powers it up.

 

“Master, what have they done to you!” C-3PO is the same as ever, a small solace that the Emperor lets him keep this particular droid, even though his memory banks have been carefully edited to remember only the Emperor’s approved history of Vader. “Are you quite alright?”

 

“No, Threepio. I’m not.” His vision has gone blurry again, and he can still feel the ache and the pulse of life through the Force in his abdomen. “I’m not.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a contract job. One year's worth of monthy deliveries on the Empire's dime. It's not even an important mining station. But there's something on the station. A ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is so enormous I can scarcely breathe but we must begin before we get to all the good stuff. Thanks much to marblemartin for their kindness and welcoming me to this beautiful little world.

The coordinates of the drop location don't come back registered to a planet. Taking into consideration the client through, and Boba isn't particularly concerned. It wouldn't be the first time the Empire had wiped all record of a planet from the infonet for their own purposes. Leaving the computer to navigate for a moment, Boba gets up to stretch. The bruise on his hip twinges and he pushes it a little further, just to work it out. 

He's being paid exorbitantly to deliver a shipment to this backwater outpost and the sum is bordering on suspicious. Most of it is ensure his silence, he's been told, and he's not worried it will become a problem. He knows damn well when to keep his mouth shut. The risk is that the Empire will be looking into him a little more closely than he'd like once a month. Still, it's a year long contract and work that steady is hard to come by. He's been promised more, but Boba doesn't hold his breath for what he can't get done himself.

The console chirps at him and he returns to the controls. The little planet is there when Slave l drops out of hyperspace, just where the coordinates indicated and the data maps showed a blank. It's green in a few places, scarred barren and dry in large swathes by mining operations. Preliminary scans come back nominal, here's no significant signs of life anywhere. The mining systems may be automated, just a skeleton crew to run things while the Empire reaps the rewards. The amount of food and supplies he's carrying to the station is barely enough to last one man the time between shipments either way. It's none of his business how they get by.

The landing bay is an open courtyard to the station, big enough for a ship twice the Slave l's size. Setting it down gently, Boba debates putting his armor back on for appearances sake. The scans hadn't indicated the station was occupied after all. And it was wretchedly hot on this particular dirtball. Humid besides all of that. Holstering his blaster on his hip, Boba activates the cargo doors and hefts the first of a dozen supply crates.

The protocol that came with the shipment was very specific and Boba referred back to it several times to be sure. The crates were to be stacked in a circular clean room off the landing bay for decontamination and moved into the station from there. He would not be allowed access inside the station without be decontaminated himself. The entire inside of the station was to be kept sterile. Perhaps it's a recovery station? Boba still isn't going in without his blaster. Anyone that needs to be kept anyplace so secret isn't anyone Boba wants to face without it.

It's hot enough outside that his shirt is sticking uncomfortably to his back by the time he's finished moving the boxes into the clean room. Thankfully, the decontamination sequence comes with a blast of cold air from inside. The transparent doors cycle open to let him in and Boba takes a cursory look around before getting to work. 

The storage room where he's to leave the cargo is just off of a big main room that the clean room opens to. It's empty, not a stick of furniture in the place, but perfectly clean. The tall windows overlooking a drop off on the far side of the room are tinted, muting the sunlight that comes through. The florescent lights overhead are off and the room is dim but manageable. Other than the marked lack of dust, the place could be abandoned. There's no machinery, no little bots scurrying about. It's dead silent. Empty as a tomb. It doesn't matter, Boba's going to finish his job, but there's something unsettling in the quiet. Something just this side of not right.

He picks up the first crate of the stack and hefts it and as he does, there a rumble overhead and the ventilation systems kicks on. Not so abandoned after all. If the environmental systems are operating, they must be keeping someone comfortable. No one's shown up, but that hardly means there's no one present. Boba likes the station less and less with each quiet moment that passes. At least he'll have cool air to ease the work. 

It's easy going until Boba goes to pick up a crate of food and the bottom falls out. Ration packs spill across the floor and the crate splinters. "Fuck!" He drops it quickly, but it still rips into his hand. It's shallow cut, but long enough to for a steady trickle of blood to drip down his fingers as he looks around for a wash station. A small rattling noise behind him has him whirling, blaster drawn. 

Behind him is a long hall off the main room and the noise is a medkit that's now sitting in the entryway. A medkit that was most certainly not there just a moment ago. The hair on the back of Boba's neck prickles. He's not superstitious man. He doesn't believe in ghosts. But this is decidedly... unusual. Blaster leveled at the entryway, Boba steps closer and hooks the handle with his boot, dragging it back. The kit is still sealed, still sterile, and he rips it open with his bleeding hand, the other still resting on the trigger. 

"Who's there?" He calls out, listening for any response as he tears open a packet of powdered coagulant with his teeth. His voice echos down the hall twice. No one calls back. 

The powder stops the bleeding enough for him to get his cut wrapped, covered at least until he can finish the job. The station is silent as he tugs the bandage tight, using his teeth once more. 

Tossing the trash back into the kit, Boba stands, still watching the hall with blaster in hand. "I'm going to finish packing this up and I'll get out of here." Boba shouts down the hall, holstering his weapon, "Leave me to my work and I'll leave you to yours." Again there's nothing but his echo in response.

He very pointedly doesn't hurry to finish.

The silence doesn't feel so benign anymore. It's loaded. Every part of Boba strains to catch an noise, a voice, machinery, anything to indicate he's not alone. And there's nothing. 

Cargo packed away, he goes to pick up the medkit and draws his blaster again when he finds the packet of painkillers he'd left inside the box now lying on top of it. Someone is fucking with him. "You won't show your face." He says into the silence, "I don't think I'll be taking these until I'm well away from here." He doesn't intend to take them at all. "If you want to be helpful, you could tell me who you are." He waits, crouched in the main room for an answer. 

He doesn't get one. 

Shoving the packet into his pocket, Boba picks up the medkit and the open packets of his trash in one scoop and backs toward the decontamination chamber, blaster still trained the empty room. The clean room opens back to the landing bay and Boba holsters his weapon once more. He doesn't like the damn station one bit but short of actually proving dangerous, there's no reason not to come back next month. 

Back at the controls, Boba punches in the coordinates of his next destination and readies the ship for launch. As he picks Slave l off the ground, he glances back down at the station and perhaps it's only a trick of the light or he's determined to find fault with the creepy little station, but for an instant Boba is sure he spots the outline of a figure against the clean room's transparent sides.

**Author's Note:**

> Cylo is this guy: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Cylo-IV
> 
> Thanks always to photonromance for playing idea tennis with me for this AU!


End file.
